


Right Where It Belongs

by monstersinthecosmos



Category: Vampire Chronicles - Anne Rice
Genre: BDSM, Blood Drinking, Christmas!, D/s, Festive Smut, Impact Play, M/M, canon-compliant smut, catholic stuff, i hope that wasn't confusing when i said that, i just mean he's a fool lmao, lestat is a clown, not a literal clown this is not an AU, vampire stuff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-24
Updated: 2017-12-24
Packaged: 2019-02-19 13:04:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13124307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/monstersinthecosmos/pseuds/monstersinthecosmos
Summary: Written for the VC holiday exchange! CHRISTMAS AT RUE ROYALE, in which we use kinky blood drinking to iron out centuries of miscommunication.Takes place after Merrick/features Louis v2.0.





	Right Where It Belongs

**Author's Note:**

  * For [magicbubblepipe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/magicbubblepipe/gifts).



> Wrote this for [magicbubblepipe](http://archiveofourown.org/users/magicbubblepipe/works) for the[@vcsecretgifts](http://vcsecretgifts.tumblr.com/) exchange! SORRY I TALK A LOT, I HOPE YOU LIKE IT! 
> 
> Title based on [Right Where It Belongs](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vxrf4ZzzrA8) by Nine Inch Nails, though I linked v2 because it's quieter and had way more to do with my creative process. ;)
> 
>  
> 
> BIG SHOUTOUT TO [Rebness](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Rebness/pseuds/Rebness) and [sheepskeleton](http://sheepskeleton.tumblr.com/) and VC Discord for help with Catholic stuff! THANKS BBS!

One of these days, Lestat will stop fucking up.

At least, he likes to think so. There’s always been two conflicting Lestats in his mind: there’s the Ideal Lestat, the one he wishes he could be. That’s the one that is good and patient, that does the right thing for himself and his beloveds, that breezes through immortality with grace, with style. He imagines that One Day he will figure it all out, that Forever will feel like a blank canvas, an opportunity, and not such a threat. Vampires will come together, there will be peace, Armand will find someone who can tolerate him for more than a decade, Marius will make sense of his retirement. Maybe David will even stop ignoring Lestat’s phone calls. It’s a good future, and one Lestat keeps alive out of sheer desperation, because whenever he loses the thread it all seems too dangerous, too claustrophobic, to be tolerable.

The other Lestat is, of course, Actual Lestat, and he has his issues with this guy. He has grandiose ideas, he dreams big, but at the end of the day (or night?) he’s left with the reality that his impulse control is complete garbage and he manages to break everything he touches. When he can keep his chin up he tends to think of his personality as something bright, exciting, fun! But it comes at the price of being a little too wild, reckless, irresponsible.

So, he’s working on it. David says he should practice thinking out consequences more often. To be fair, David’s been saying that for years, but since his sabbatical at St. Elizabeth’s Lestat has felt a bit calmer, more open to advice. The idea resonates in him more than it did before, and Lestat feels ready to really try it. He thinks he’s finally through the hypnopompic state that was weighing him down after everything that happened, and it’s a new night, a new chance to be the Lestat he wants to be.

He’s determined, really. It’s Take 3 of Eternity w/ Louis and he thinks he can make it work this time. He’s ready.

And one of these days, he’ll stop fucking it up.

 

 

* * *

 

It’s getting dark earlier now, and Lestat wakes first. He pries himself from the entanglement of Louis’s limbs and slips out the door, only cracking it the width of his body. The flat is dark, the curtains are heavy and the sun is mostly down anyway, but Louis is precious and must be protected at all costs, must not be disturbed.

There’s an hour, maybe an hour-and-a-half before Louis wakes up, and if he’s fast it shouldn’t be an issue. With David and Merrick off exploring together, it’s the first Christmas he’s spent alone with Louis since…

He’s not sure when, actually. Maybe since before Claudia, and his stomach churns around the thought. He doesn’t think those years count.

So he wants tonight to be special. Perfect. Resplendent! When Louis wakes up and comes out he’ll be so impressed and dazzled and he’ll see in every gem and gesture that Lestat is utterly devoted. He will smile in spite of himself and reach for Lestat’s hand, and thank him and kiss his knuckles and drag him out to Tulane/Gravier and they’ll hunt and go to the Midnight Mass and find a _réveillon_ to attend. But he has to work fast.

He’s hidden the decorations all over the house--boxes of stringed lights in their unused kitchen cupboards, mountain laurel garlands in the utility shed in the courtyard. There are armfuls of pinecones and lavender and rosemary in the trunk of his car. He’s even arranged for groceries to be delivered during the day--the crate is waiting by the doorstep, full of oranges and limes and a pineapple. Once it’s all inside he sets out to transforming the flat, moving at a speed that is inhuman, barely even vampire. The creative thrill of it all distracts him from the usual seizing discomfort.

The transformation happens in a blur, but it comes along. He drapes the lights in elegant curves across the ceiling and frames the windows in garlands. Every door gets a wreath and he scatters the rosemary and lavender petals in a path across the floor. The pineapple makes for a lovely centerpiece on the coffee table, strategically nested amongst the pinecones and fruit. Then the Portishead Roseland vinyl and the fireplace. And the final touch, as it’s truly getting dark outside, is the candles. They’re across the mantle, on every table, in the chandelier. He lights them with the Fire Gift and gives the room a once over.

Nice. He nods at his handiwork. The candles and stoked fire leave a heavy warmth in the air, and the whole room is filled with the fragrances of fruit and herbs and flowers. It’s exquisite. Festive. Christmas alone together and he’s ready to turn on the romance.

And now just to get dressed--he’s tucked the perfect outfit away in David’s unoccupied bedroom, to keep it a surprise--and he turns to head down the hallway but--

Oh.

There he is.

He’s standing in the doorway and his face is a mask. Lestat freezes, suddenly feeling foolish, silly, underdressed, unprepared. The way the heat in the room settles against his skin is stifling.

“Uh,” he stutters and tries to smooth his shirt down over his hips. “Good morning.”

Louis’s eyes make a slow sweep across the room before landing on Lestat again. Awkward silence. Lestat’s fingers twitch at his sides.

“Merry Christmas!” he blurts out.

Still nothing.

Louis’s face doesn’t match the vision Lestat had, the prediction he made. There’s no dawning of surprise, no gratitude, no tender smile. He tries desperately to read what it says, heart pounding, but… he doesn’t necessarily look angry or anything like that. Not disappointed. He doesn’t have that pre-eyeroll set to his jaw that comes sometimes when Lestat does something really stupid. He just looks…

Dead.

It cuts through the warmth and prickles against him. That the Blood always quietly sings through them is a given--Louis will always have that, his hair will always look lustrous even when it’s a tousled, just-woken mess like it is now--but there’s something cold about him. It’s the old, familiar heaviness, and it reminds him of how it used to be before, in this same place, the way Louis’s presence could siphon all the life out of the room.

And he’s floundering now, blushing, and it’s all wrong. There Louis is, surrounded by lush greens and pretty lights and… it didn’t work. Lestat bites the inside of his lip.

“I…” Louis stops himself. He looks around the room again, and his eyes linger on the fireplace. He pushes his hair back, away from his face, but it falls back into his eyes the moment he lets go. “I have to hunt. I’ll be back.”

He begins to move for the front door, and he pauses before he opens it. His shoulders are curled inwards. Lestat isn’t trying to scrutinize him, but full of these awkward pauses he can’t help but to take in every detail. Louis hasn’t quite reached the cemetery waif status in a while, but the neckline of his sweater is beginning to fray. Lestat recalls David’s gentle suggestion, months back, _Don’t let’s tease him about the clothes, Lestat_ , and he hasn’t. But now, as he stares hard and tries to decipher it, he realizes Louis’s been wearing that same one for weeks.

His mind races for solutions--maybe he’ll take it all down while Louis is gone, maybe he can pretend it didn’t happen--but Louis finally offers him a small smile over his shoulder as he opens the door. Small and forced, like it’s taking all his energy, but the visible effort makes Lestat’s heart flutter.

“It looks nice, Lestat,” he says softly. “Bring me to Mass when I get back.”

Then he’s gone.

 

* * *

 

 

 

All right, Lestat. We can try again.

No need to frantically dismantle the hard work, no need to panic. He gets dressed in David’s room and combs his hair, puts on cologne. He checks the clock. Early still, hours before Mass, but he isn’t sure how long Louis is going to take. It’s hard to know.

But he’s out there somewhere, and the thought of it… it's frustrating and unfair and he can feel the jealousy winding in his chest. He has to take a deep breath to calm himself, and he fusses with the cufflinks that cost more than the car downstairs, and gives his head a little shake. It's a lesson learned and he can try again. Actions have consequences, lesson learned. It was too much. We must relax. Try again.

With Louis gone he fusses with the decorations more, goes over them with more care. The scent of the candles have time to permeate the whole flat. It’s a nice blend of vanilla and cinnamon and bitter orange that just makes the whole place feel more like a home. Good, yes. That is the desired effect. He hopes Louis agrees.

 _Everything isn’t about you, Lestat_ , David had said. _Give him space, Lestat._

He wonders if he should call David.

_He’s been through a terrible ordeal, Lestat, leave him be._

The instinct is to roll his eyes, to be a brat. David thinks he knows Louis better than Lestat does! Ridiculous. He doesn’t care how much time they spent together while he was indisposed. Who asked David, anyway? Just thinking about it makes him cross his arms over his chest and huff into the empty room.

He could call. David might know what to do, know where Lestat went wrong. Maybe calling your fledgling on Christmas is also a polite thing to do. There’s a moment where he considers it enough to reach for the phone, but he stops when he realizes he doesn’t know where to call. Maybe he can project a signal to Merrick, and maybe…

He hears Louis’s heavy footfall on the steps outside the door and scrambles to greet him. He tosses his hair out of his eyes and straightens the lapels of his jacket. Okay, Lestat. Here we go.

Louis’s face is still dead like before when he comes in, except there’s color in his skin. Fed and full and just the sight of it makes Lestat’s insides squeeze tight. He closes the door behind him and hovers there, his eyes downcast to the ground, hand still on the doorknob. The self-control Lestat is exerting, just to keep his mouth shut, is legendary.

“I…” Louis’s fingernails tap nervously on the knob. His brows come together.

Louis can be quiet, Lestat knows this. It isn’t unusual for him to lapse into periods of moody silence. He, unlike Lestat, is a person who does not feel the need to fill every space with meaningless chatter. There are times when he even uses the quiet like a tool, a weapon, to combat one of Lestat’s stupid ideas. It’s something he wields deftly.

This anxious, inarticulate stuttering is not the same. To see him so uncertain, truly speechless, sets off alarms all through Lestat’s head.

What he wouldn’t give to hear Louis’s thoughts right now.

There are words rolling in his mouth, on deck, entire novels worth of babbling to break the suffocating quiet. He can practically feel David’s hands on his shoulders begging him to refrain. _Ask yourself the value of what you want to say, Lestat._

Sure, valid. Say something with purpose, with use!

He clears his throat. “Did you… want to get ready for church?”

Louis’s posture falters a little. Relief? Their eyes meet and it's so striking, so vital. The freshness of his recent kill is vibrant in every vessel and it makes the green pop out even more. Another forced, sad smile, and he nods, then disappears down the hallway.

He really has made the effort recently to back off about the clothes, not to pick on him. Louis would want to look nice for church though, he can be old fashioned in that way. He wonders if Louis will notice if he burns the tattered sweater before he can put it back on.

While he waits, he unbuttons his jacket and sits down on the couch. He picks up a lime from the coffee table and holds it against his face, inhaling the scent. He’d tasted one once, when his body had been stolen, but the smell still always reminds him of the early years with Louis anyway. Just as he’s tried to recreate the look of their home in the Rue Royale, so he’s tried to recreate their old traditions. Citrus and lavender and garlands and he remembers Claudia right here in this room, asking Louis what a lime tastes like.

Claudia, in those early first years, when she was really a child.

Her little shoes by the fireplace for Père Noël.

The lime nearly falls from his hands when Louis steps back into the room. There’s a surge of arousal that comes on so hard and fast it feels like panic. His throat goes dry and he drops the lime back onto the table with a thud, then stands. He buttons his jacket again and straightens his lapels.

Louis’s hair is combed back out of his face with just enough hair gel to make it stay in place, not enough to look styled.  The typically unruly curls settle more to one side, above his right ear, and hang loose at the nape of his neck. Lestat opens his mouth to say something, gaping, and it isn't even the struggle for efficiency this time when he doesn't speak. It's more that he's legitimately speechless.

He's trapped there, and when he sees the slight, so slight, maybe imperceptible raise of one Louis’s eyebrows he knows he fell for it. It floods through him in a wave of heat that’s akin to the flush of shame.

The suit is a few years old by now, Lestat remembers it, but he's never actually seen Louis wear it. He recalls eyeballing the measurements at the time, because Louis would never agree to come get fitted, and seeing it now he offers himself a mental pat on the back. For the most part, Louis hasn't changed--they never really do--but since his rebirth in Lestat’s blood his muscles have filled out a bit more. That he's been feeding regularly now helps, too. It’s a subtle change, one that anyone else might not notice, but Lestat sees the way the pants cling to his thighs, just enough.

The same suit, Lestat knows--severe black, slim cut, single breasted jacket with one button that he's touching now with his thumb, tracing it with his nail idly before fastening it over his waistline. It's tapered to his body, drawing in and cutting lines that make his shoulders seem broader.  At the time when Lestat bought the ensemble he'd provided a shirt as well, charcoal twill with a spread collar, but this is where Louis has strayed. Another sweater now, though not the heavy, loose thing from before. This one is new, a turtleneck, and it looks so soft, _expensive,_ settling just above the waistline of his pants. Merino wool, perhaps? Lestat wants to touch it. It's a dark purple, byzantium, almost black, and the contrast against the stark white of his throat is dizzying. Lestat feels completely played, broken, and he's so infuriated and impressed by the way the neckline is covering all of Louis’s best parts.

Well done, sir.

Louis steps forward, Chelsea boots quiet against the floor. He reaches out, knuckles up, and Lestat takes the bait of kissing the back of his hand.

“Bring me to church,” Louis says. Lestat’s throat is going dry.

“You look amazing,” he manages.

“Bring me to church,” Louis says again.

There's a clumsy scramble for keys and to put the candles out, turn the music off. A messy combination of mind gifts with actual physical force. Louis waits by the door, expressionless, tapping his fingers on the doorknob. When Lestat is finally ready to go he sees Louis take a brief, judgemental glance down at this watch, _Oh God he's wearing a watc_ _h?_ , and he steps aside to let Lestat get the door.

“Can I hunt?” Lestat asks as they leave through the carriageway. “There's still time.”

“No,” Louis says gently. He touches the small of Lestat’s back to guide him on the sidewalk. “You will be hungry.”

It makes Lestat’s hair stand on end.

They’re early still, so they take the long way around, looping needlessly through the Quarter. Even on Christmas Eve the bars are full, the noise is constant. And he feels like he should be more mature than this, have more control. He's not a sloppy fledgling that needs to feed every night, but being told he _can't_ makes him bristle. As they weave through the throngs of people he can feel the warm press of humanity closing in all around. His breathing begins to go ragged and Louis squeezes his hand as they walk. It's a reassurance, a comfort, but also a taunt.

But Louis’s presence at his side is calming as they approach the cathedral. He thinks he’d probably behave better if Louis could be there all the time, just like this. Lestat’s instinct is always to create a fuss, make a scene. If it were up to him, he'd smile and wink at every parishioner on the way inside, dazzle them so they don't notice he’s cut the line. Louis, though, glides through like an apparition. They notice him, but don't. Is it Louis’s own doing? He hasn't been clear on what gifts Lestat's blood gave him. His natural grace has always been attractive, but the idea that he's learning to use them to his advantage, to exert some type of dark charm, is completely devastating. Lestat trails in his wake like a child.

The thought of it is on his mind through the entire service.  

After everything, he isn't sure where Louis’s faith has landed. It's a topic he hasn't wanted to breach, and one Louis has always had trouble with anyway. Still, the pageantry is such a spectacle, and their ritual goes beyond the mass itself. Maybe _ritual_ is a harsh word, maybe it should be _tradition._

He's still hungry and distracted; the feeling isn't unlike how he would have trouble focusing in church when he was alive. Back then it wasn't out of boredom, more that he had so many questions and couldn't sit still. Now, it's because he can't stop turning to watch Louis’s profile, keeps reaching to touch his freshly-fed warmth.

“We must show mercy and forgiveness, as our Savior has shown to us,” the cardinal says. Lestat finds the man’s accent endearing, incongruous to the old-world feel of the cathedral. His eyes wander to the ceiling, the arches, _Sanctus Sanctus Sanctus_ , the stained glass. He would love to see how the windows look with sunlight cutting through. He squeezes Louis’s hand.

It's not the nicest cathedral, not the biggest or oldest. He's had two hundred years to see them all over the world, see all the architecture, the most beautiful and ornate. And maybe this one isn't the best, but… it's theirs.

The human energy seems like it's too much all of a sudden.

“Forgiveness is messy,” the cardinal says, “and we do not pretend, in the midst of trying to forgive, we do not pretend that we have not been hurt.”

Even the cathedral has changed in ways that Louis and Lestat can never. But the walls still feel hallowed, infused with spirit and memories. It’s like the space itself has its own presence. He inches closer to Louis, their shoulders together. The cathedral looked different then, but he remembers being here in this space. Those rare occasions that the church filled with mortals at night, and Claudia was so curious to see them. Pressed between their bodies, her hands folded politely in her lap. Sitting still in a way a human child could never.

“Is there someone that you need to forgive?” the cardinal asks. He pauses and the words hang heavy in the air. “Or to accept their forgiveness? Do you need to let go of some kind of hurt and pain?”

Louis has been more withdrawn than usual. David filled him in on bits and pieces of what happened, things he missed while he was…

The patient part of him says to give it time, reminds him that he made part of the mess anyway--all right, most of it--that he can’t keep pushing so much. The patient part of him sounds mysteriously like David, now that he thinks about it. And it was easier to listen to when David was around, there to keep on an eye on him. Even having Merrick there, as naive as she was to the entire story, felt like a distraction, a way to diffuse the energy in the house. And without them…

It startles him out of his own reverie when the humans begin to shuffle around him,  standing and moving to take communion. The choir is leading into O Holy Night and the volume with the electric speakers is overpowering. He can hear jumbles of their thoughts over everything, so disorganized that he can’t tell them apart from each other. Louis stands, and Lestat clings to his side.

Louis leads them to the end of the aisle, and an easy left turn would have them in line to proceed to the altar. He opens his mouth to speak, ready to beg. He almost asks Louis if they can leave, and without even having to say it out loud he knows it will come out in a panicked whisper. But he thinks back to their flat full of decorations and his failure to stick the landing. _Everything isn’t about you, Lestat_. His teeth click as he snaps his mouth closed, deciding against it. If this is something Louis needs to do, Lestat wants to let him. The patient part tells him he owes Louis that much.

But Louis goes to the right, and Lestat’s heart is thudding in his chest as they weave through the line, against the grain but unnoticed, until they break through the dense energy and back out through the doors. Jackson Square is chilly and quiet and he takes a minute to breathe the damp river air.

There’s still noise--it isn’t silent, but it isn’t so confined out here. There are still street vendors and performers milling around, even this late at night, and drunks and carollers and everything else. And if he’d lost track of time, even for a moment, he has the sounds of traffic now, the riffs of car horns, to bring him back to the twenty first century. He crosses the flagstones until he can grab the wrought iron fence and he leans in to rest his forehead against it.

“Lestat,” his voice isn’t loud, but it’s firm. He touches Lestat’s shoulder. “Take me home.”

 

* * *

 

 

 

Neither of them admit it out loud, but that they, again, take the long way home and loop around the Quarter is an indulgence in tradition. Out to Decatur, then Canal, then Bourbon. The city has changed around them but he can remember how it felt making this trip. There were wreaths on all the doors, and garlands on all the balconies, candles in every window. Claudia would have each of them by the hand, safe between them, smiling every time she heard a bell and asking any question that came to her. Louis answered most of them in his usual gentle tone. The mortals would stand in the doorways and try to usher them inside, try to ply Louis and Lestat with drinks which they would politely decline, though Claudia would accept their offerings of candy. She would stash them in Lestat’s pockets.

Everything is electric now and there’s nothing between them but air.

He still aches a little when he thinks about the early years, when she was still a real child. They made this trip again and again, and she would accept less and less candy. She stopped asking questions. Stopped believing in Père Noël. Lestat couldn’t even be sure when--he knew there was a an overlay somewhere as she matured where she had no desire to hurt Louis, and kept playing the part to protect him. _Gradually, then suddenly_. One night she wasn’t a child anymore.

The mass is still in session when they come back down to Rue Royale and pass the cathedral again. _Agnus Dei, qui tollis peccata mundi, miserere nobis,_ he hears from inside. He’s still playing it over and over in his head when they come back in through the carriageway, and he’s not paying attention that they’re home until Louis is quietly reminding him to open the door. Right.

Louis goes inside ahead of him, and though he still hasn’t reacted to all the decor in the way Lestat expected, he does begin to make his rounds lighting all the candles again. Not with the Fire Gift, but with a lighter that was in his pocket the whole time. He holds one of them in front of his face, staring into the flame for a moment. It dances in his eyes.

This hasn’t been the evening that Lestat planned, but he does still have a few things up his sleeve. He leaves Louis there to tend to the candles and heads into their seldom-used kitchen. As he starts the kettle he can hear Louis flipping the record over so that Mysterons starts this time.

 _Okay Lestat,_ he thinks. _Home in one piece, let’s not mess it up this time._ Their cabinets are mostly empty, filled with tea and coffee for guests, some condiments. It’s unlikely that Louis would’ve come in here, but he’s hidden the hot chocolate and marshmallows and peppermint sticks behind Merrick’s jars of mystery herbs. The chocolate is in a decorative tin, and he’s sure he could try to read the instructions to make it properly, but it’s really just the scent that counts, he supposes. He scoops it into oversized mugs and pours in the steaming water when it’s ready, and stirs it with the peppermint. Marshmallows on top for accent, just like David showed him. This is how humans would do it.

And, genius! He admires his handiwork and takes a moment to inhale the steam to make sure he got it right. When he gets around to calling David he’ll thank him for the idea--sometimes he gets so caught up with decadence that it doesn’t occur to him to do things simply. Just make it at home! Genius.

“Louis?” he calls as he picks up the mugs and starts back to the living room. “Do you want to put on a movie?” He pictures Louis’s face when he comes back--soft and pleased, impressed--and he’ll be ready to curl up together on the couch with their hot chocolates. They can put on _Cinema Paradiso_ or _Gentlemen Prefer Blondes_ or _Blue Velvet_. Louis can decide! He loves the way Louis’s head eventually always drifts to rest on his shoulder when they watch movies together, and how his arm always winds up draped over Lestat’s hips. That will have to be later, though, when their drinks have gone cold and been discarded to the coffee table. For now they’ll just huddle together, cradling their cups to their chests.

He steps through the doorway back into the living room, and--

Oh.

There he is.

 _Dreams and belief have gone_ , the record player sings.

It’s not expressionless like he’d been earlier in the evening, not the same emptiness. In its place is darkness, ragged and pained.

Lestat has seen Louis ragged. Seen him in pain. He’s seen Louis lost and desperate and weak with starvation. To see this in his face, centuries later, is jarring for a moment, it’s almost…

But it’s different now.

It’s hunger, but a different type. Lestat can still see the heat and color in his skin--he knows it isn’t for blood, yet there’s the need all the same.

Suddenly he feels silly, standing there with hot chocolates that they can’t drink, realizing once again how he’s misread his lover. He reaches to put the mugs down on a side table and lets the foolishness wash over. It’s something his ego typically doesn’t leave space for, but lately he’s been learning how good it feels to expose it to Louis, how well it primes him for the sharp tongue and vicious wit.

He clasps his hands together and moves towards Louis, pulled into his somber gaze, and when he’s close enough to touch he almost lowers himself to his knees, the way he usually does. After this entire night, all his mistakes--the shame burning the back of his neck, tips of his ears, churning in his gut--the impending subservience feels like a blessing. He’s ready to submit, ready to let go of the reigns.

But Louis grabs him by the arms before he can sink down, and his grip is firm, enough to hurt. Nails dig into him even through the fabric of his suit. And this is fine, too, they can start like this, he supposes. It’s a relief to let go of control and he knows he has no business deciding how they begin--it isn’t his choice to make.

He’s expecting a verbal command--Louis usually needs it as a warmup--and it catches him completely off guard when the grip shifts, both hands in Lestat’s thick hair, and they crash together into a kiss. His eyes open and he gasps into it, startled at first, then confused as Louis tears a hole through his bottom lip. The taste of his own blood sends a jolt through him that should feel shameful. If Louis could hear his thoughts he’d be embarrassed by how much he likes it, absolutely mortified. But the taste fades as Louis sucks at the wound, pulling the blood into his own mouth, gently tonguing the hole until it heals.

“Hit me, Lestat,” he says as he pulls away. His nails press into Lestat’s scalp and the pain tingles down his spine.

Blindly accepting every and all command when they stumble into scenes is a natural instinct by now, one Lestat even craves, and muscle memory almost dictates that he assume one of the usual positions. Standing up straight, hands behind his back? On his knees, eyes locked respectfully to the floor? Turned away and braced on the nearest available surface? But…

Wait.

His hands falter at his sides, his mouth opens. He almost asks for Louis to repeat himself, but Louis can read the confusion and clarifies before Lestat can.

“Will you hit me?” framing it as a question this time has a note of uncertainty in his voice. This was not discussed, and Louis’s role can only ever go so far. It’s a quick flash of vulnerability on his face that he hides as fast as it comes on.

Lestat’s heart is thrashing beneath his ribs.

He’s used to Louis taking control, dominating each carnal tryst. And he likes it, the way he liked when Nicki would do it. He _needs_ it.

But Louis isn’t like this.

He begins to take a step back--not to recoil, but to get a clearer view. Louis doesn’t let him go, but his grip loosens enough that he can pull away, just a bit so that he can see. He doesn’t think anyone else in the world would be able to read Louis like he can--no one else would see this flat expression and see the fire beneath it, the worry, the utter exhaustion. It makes his heart swell with love, and even as he takes the moment to adjust around the order, he knows he will eventually oblige.

“Darling…” he touches Louis’s hip with one hand and his face with the other, traces the orbital with his thumb.  He still doesn’t feel ready to accept that he doesn’t know, for certain, what Louis needs the most. It doesn’t seem like pain can be the answer. “Why?”

They’ve never stated explicitly, but he imagines that asking why is against the rules.

Sharp tug at his hair. “Don’t be a brat.”

His back arches under Louis’s grip, so that their chests press together.

“But Louis--”

“Stop talking,” he mumbles. Another kiss, and he’s biting at Lestat’s bottom lip again. Not to cut it like before, no fangs, just the dull vice of teeth that quickens to a red throb as he pulls back. Lestat whimpers and squeezes Louis closer. When Louis lets go it hurts just as bad, the feeling of his blood rushing back in, the way the bruise tingles as it heals. “I told you to hit me, Lestat.”

What would David say about this?

Then the hands drop from his hair, and Louis steps back. The fabric of his jacket slips easily from Lestat’s hand, and he draws away until he hits the mantle. The gel in his hair is starting to fail, and a curl is falling down over one of his eyes. It makes his whole face look even darker, more predatory.

“You’re a fool, Lestat,” he says. There’s a faint tint of red to his teeth--Lestat’s blood still staining his mouth. He wipes his lips on the back of his hand and his eyes sweep quickly across the room. “Always the perfect idiot, Lestat.”

Lestat’s hands are shaking and he isn’t sure why. Not that he isn’t often overtaken by his own emotions--he can admit that he is--but his head is spinning and he’s not sure which emotion is responsible this time. There’s a shrill burn of indignation, but it’s melting into the familiar pleasure of submission. Whatever ego there is to be wounded is thrilled to be cracked under Louis’s adept hand.

 _He worries about you, you know_ , David said.

A deep breath to steady himself, and he fidgets with his cufflinks for a moment to calm his hands. It’s dawning on him that this really is a thing about to happen and he needs to adjust around the idea, make a plan. Hit him how? The apprehension settles in his muscles, a dense weight, and he wonders how much Louis could take. How much he needs. He isn’t sure Louis truly understands the depth of his strength.

“Must you always be so obtuse, Lestat?” is the next baiting insult. Lestat unbuttons his jacket as he steps closer. “Must I always take care of things myself?”

_To tread this fantasy, openly…_

The power gathering in his forehead, behind his eyes, pulses and aches, but he locks onto Louis’s gaze as the first crackle of flame materializes in the fireplace behind him. Louis flinches, but seems pleased. His posture straightens against the heat. Even from several paces away Lestat can feel it himself, licking up against his face, pleasantly massaging the fabric of his clothing. From far away it’s pleasant--something one can bask in--but for Louis it must already hurt.

The music is tapering down to a close, the swell of the audience rising up to fill the empty space. He hears the click of the record player’s arm moving back into place, and he considers starting it again with his mind, but he sees the way Louis is twitching, so close to the open fire, and decides to make him wait. He turns away to change the record to side three, and from behind him he can hear Louis’s breath going heavy. He’s in pain.

Yet, when he’s finished and comes back, there is no weakness in Louis’s face. He’s rearranged himself into something hard and challenging, and the fury beneath all of it is so alarming.

His shoulders are crushing the mountain laurel against the mantle.

“Don’t make me ask you again, Lestat,” speaking in a calm that doesn’t match his expression. Which, Lestat realizes as he closes the space between them, is actually a relief. It’s an indication that it’s still a role, and that Lestat isn’t in control. He doesn’t want to be in control. Not with Louis.

The kiss he initiates is softer than Louis’s. Longer. Fingertips trace his jawline, thumb strokes across a cheekbone. This close he can feel the fire and he wonders how Louis is handling it. His muscles feel stiff from it, frame tense. 

But Louis submits to Lestat’s tongue, the tender exploration of his hands. Lestat doesn’t bite, but Louis manages to nick himself on Lestat’s fangs anyway. Lestat moans when the taste hits him, because it knocks him over every time. It’s all grace and greed and _Louis_ in a way that thrills him like no one else ever has. It raises the hair on his arms, the back of his neck. His skin prickles with chills even against the oppressive heat.

There’s a string of reddish, blood-tinged saliva between them when Lestat pulls away, comes up for air.

“That wasn’t what I asked for, Lestat,” Louis says. “You never do anything right on your own.”

 _Slap_.

The power behind it shocks him, the way his palm connects to Louis’s cheek, the crack of bone he feels. Louis’s head snaps to the side and his styled hair falls out of place. When he looks back up his nose is bleeding, and blood drips in a velvety line from a split near the corner of his mouth. The scent hangs in the air, rusty and sweet.

When he speaks again, even as Lestat can see the bones in his nose settling back into place, he can hear the congestion of blood in his voice.

“The things you get into,” he says, “when I’m not around--”

Lestat cuts off the sentiment by licking the blood from Louis’s face, a broad line of his tongue from Louis’s chin all the way to his upper lip. He holds their foreheads together as he takes a moment to savor the taste.

“--even when I am around…”

And that’s it.

Okay, Lestat. Okay.

Normally, when they share these moments, he revels in the sharp, vibrant reds of pain. The way his nerves light up all over his body, the way the sensation grows from the source of impact. He loves the feeling of being harmed by cold hands that he trusts. It’s exhilarating to feel this broken, to be ground down, to feel normal again. But the pain is an illusion, the danger isn’t real. He trusts Louis. He falls into subspace like falling into a warm bath, and he doesn’t have to be Lestat anymore, doesn’t have to carry his own burdens. His gifts can be monstrous, paralyzing. Immortality can be a threat. It’s a cage.

And Louis frees him, even when it’s only for a little while.

So he hears David again, and remembers the quiet first weeks when he finally came to. Louis going down for the day early, or slipping off to hunt and never coming back until it was almost dawn. All those hours, most of them right here in the flat , and David’s patient, easy voice trying to explain all of it to him. Everything isn’t about you.

The realization washes over him in a palpable wave, head to toe, rolling through his spine, his limbs, the pads of his fingers. _H_ _e’s been through a terrible ordeal, Lestat._

It’s never occurred to him that Louis might need it, too.

His shoulders straighten, his chest puffs out in determination.

“Come on now, Lestat,” Louis says. His voice is more even now. It’s not as much of a challenge as a moment ago, but an encouragement. The fury is softening from his eyes.

And he thinks he can get this right.

He reaches to unbuckle Louis’s belt, and he slips it out in one fluid gesture as he flips him around by the hip. Louis catches himself on the mantle, knuckles white as he squeezes around it. Lestat runs his free hand down Louis’s back--the jacket is warmed by fire, it must be a relief to be spun away from it. He trails downward until he can cup the firm, solid mound of Louis’s ass.

Louis’s hands have been on his own body like this so many times, rubbing at him like he’s checking for ripeness, appraising a piece of meat. He folds the belt in his hands and lets it graze up the back of Louis’s thigh. Louis’s back arches in anticipation, his body lithe and graceful, and Lestat lets the pause hang in the air for a moment before he finally strikes.

Quick snap across Louis’s backside, and even through the jacket he sees Louis’s shoulder blades perking up like fins. He thinks about the ways that always satisfy him the most--unpredictable, irregular, discordant blows. Louis shudders, then stretches like a cat, under this assault.

He lays one at the top of Louis’s leg, then higher, the small of his back. To the side, cracking against his ribcage. At first the noises coming from Louis’s throat are tiny, soft. If he were human he’d be straining to hear them at all. And he realizes that it isn’t a verbal cue like the others, but a meter nonetheless of his performance.

It occurs to him that eliciting the correct response is an act of service. The idea of earning Louis’s approval excites him, even given the illusion that he’s in control now. He sees Louis turning his head, opening his mouth, like he’s about to offer another malicious insult, but Lestat is learning. He strikes once, twice. Uneven beat in between. A third makes Louis moan, and his legs shake as he struggles not to flinch away. The alternative to leaning too close to the fire is to stand his ground, and bear it. His hands are stiff and rigid on the mantle as he adjusts to it.

“Harder, Lestat,” Louis grates out between gasps of pain. He rolls his shoulders and drops his head down, chin to chest. The next sound he makes is almost animal, a broken mess of nerves. And Lestat smells the blood before he sees it. It’s dark, hardly visible, but he sees it blotting through Louis’s pants. He goes over the same spot until it’s a dark stripe. Louis’s suit is such a clean, intense black that it’s barely there. But he reaches to rub over it, feel how damp it is under his thumb. Louis flinches beneath the touch, and hisses, and Lestat sucks it from his own skin as he lays one last blow.

The skin must be healing, over and over. He knows how it feels when he’s on the receiving end, the dizzying rush of the wounds stitching themselves together, the fresh pain when they break apart again. The way it feels sensitive in the moments after, the sting of the phantom damage.  And he wants to see it, he realizes.

The belt slips from his hand and he presses in close to Louis’s back, taking the opportunity to kiss his neck as he reaches to unbutton Louis’s pants. His hands dip beneath the waistline and he pushes them away. Even from here the fire is hurting his knuckles, so he isn’t surprised when he runs his palms down over Louis’s pelvis, then the firm muscles of his thighs. The skin is warm, nearly singed, and he knows if he looks that it will be pink.  

When he presses his nails down and scratches upward, Louis arches back against his body. Whimpering, mewling. Lestat kisses his jaw, his earlobe, teases the rim of cartilage with his teeth. He can smell the blood again, breaking from clawed lines across Louis’s legs--he can feel the skin coming up beneath his nails--and it’s burning. This close to the fire, the blood smolders and evaporates.

It should hurt. It must. And Lestat knows how it feels. It was a lesson he’d learned in these very walls, and he wonders how aware of it Louis is.

The music has stopped again, he isn’t sure when. But Louis is writhing beneath him now, moaning, and he starts the record again with his mind. He hears the click of the arm counting a rhythm to Louis’s stuttering, almost panicked breaths.

He leans back, giving Louis space to lean away from the fire, as well, just for a quick respite. He trails over Louis’s hips and back around to his ass, admiring the healed white flesh. There are blotches of color where the bruises have mostly healed, and he presses hard into one of them. Louis’s arms lock to keep from thrusting forward, caught between two immovable forces.

And oh, the way his skin is cooling down. It’s been hours since he fed, and his body is spending so much energy fixing wounds and soothing the pain. Lestat can’t resist striking with his bare hand, and the _slap_ that fills the room tangles with the sound of Louis’s distressed cry.

“Bite me,” Louis moans. It makes Lestat’s hair stand up, it almost makes him moan, himself. He holds Louis by the hips, takes a moment to steady himself, to quell the overpowering _need_. He kisses Louis on the shoulder, over his clothes, and remembers the way he’s worn a turtleneck that covers the throbbing arteries. His hand comes around Louis’s throat, over the soft fabric. It feels expensive, and his heart trips at the thought that it’s a gift. Louis has done this for him, deliberately, he fell for it completely.

But it’s a trap, as well. Because…

“ _Bite me, Lestat,_ ” Louis says again. This time less weak with pleasure and more aggressive, more clear-headed. Lestat palms the wool. It’s such a shame, really.

Before he can move, Louis is shrugging out of his jacket. It falls to the floor at their feet, in a heap with his pants. The sweater is clinging to his body, showing off all the hard, masculine lines, stretching exquisitely across his shoulders. It’s such an affront to his sensibilities, but he can feel the way Louis is coiling, near to anger again, and he knows that the way out is through.

It happens so fast that he doesn’t hear the sweater tear, just feels the threads snaking between his fingers. It’s such a striking visual contrast to the gleaming skin beneath, unwrapped like a gift. And then his mouth is there, and his teeth are inside, and Louis goes tight and tense in his hands. The blood is hot like the fire and it’s spurting into his mouth, pumping over and over with Louis’s pulse, and the euphoria and intoxication is instant.

And finally he can feel it, really feel it. Really know that this was what Louis needed. He tastes the grief and guilt, the weight of their relationship. If he had the capacity to think about David right now, he’d begrudgingly admit that he was right--he’s been telling Lestat this whole time, even before Lestat had gone away, that relationships are _work_ , that Louis needs _time_ , that love is _painful_.

Oh, David. Oh.

Darling, it _aches_.

But he isn’t thinking of David now, he can’t. He’s in a haze of lust and rapture and can only focus on the lush, erotic mouthful of life, the _saveur,_ the intensity of their hearts beating out of sync. They’ll come together, he knows this. He draws hard against the open wound as his arms come around Louis’s chest, tangled in the frayed sweater. It’s falling away from Louis’s body, exposing his collarbone, his chest, his nipple. His head falls back to lean against Lestat’s shoulder.

And he really feels it.

It’s Père Noël and the taste of limes and _Dona Nobis Pacem_ , it’s empty nights and magnificent paintings in the Louvre and winter plums. And it’s Lestat, catatonic on the floor, and silence from the saints, and the smell of sage and cinnamon and mugwort in Merrick’s rooms.

Louis’s body is going slack, muscles loose. He’s pale and soft and he’s stopped making sounds. His heartbeat is going dull, though Lestat knows it will never stop.

He pulls his fangs from the warm stream, laps at the excess blood as the wound heals. Lays a kiss over the mended flesh. It’s cold again.

Languid sigh, and he’s pliant as Lestat turns him around. He peels the rest of the sweater away from Louis’s body and drops it into the fireplace.

His eyes are fluttering closed and even his lips have gone nearly colorless, but he still manages another order.

“Give me your blood,” he whispers. He grips Lestat’s shoulders for balance. “Give it to me.”

He can still taste Louis inside his mouth. He licks the remnants from his teeth.

It’s catharsis, it’s hatred. It’s survival. It’s Lestat. And it’s Lestat and it’s Lestat _and it’s Lestat_.

And the impatient whine, almost having lost control. The blood surges in Lestat’s body and his toes curl. Louis isn’t asking, not really, but he knows what Louis would do if their roles were reversed.

He steps back, and Louis nearly loses his balance. He sways on his feet and the sight of him there, drained and cold, _dead_ , clenches in Lestat’s heart. Like the blistering of flame, he knows this feeling as well. Right here in this room.

The pettiness wants to win, he feels it beading beneath the surface. Louis’s eyes open and he’s so distant, so lost. It would be so easy to let him drop to his knees, to claw at the floor and beg for a coffin.

Anger like a deep crimson knot in his chest as Louis crashes into him again, and he feels the bones crack in Louis’s arm when he squeezes him to hold him upright.

His hand recoils and his face flushes. He can practically _see_ the disappointment in David’s face, darkening his eyes. But it was an accident… !

And Louis has paid for what he’s done.

He falls against Lestat’s chest, words muffled in Lestat’s shirt. “Give it to me, brat.”

And of course. Of course. He won’t say no. He won’t mess it up this time. He can get this right. One day he’ll get it right.

He pets over Louis’s arm as he bares his throat, lays soft strokes to the back of his head. He lets his eyes close, combs Louis’s hair away from his face with his fingers. And like that, it’s over.

He’s still reeling, trying to make sense of the entire exchange, bracing himself for the next blow or the mess he’ll need to clean. But as Louis’s mouth suckles at him, gently, tenderly, all he can feel is the love. There’s gratitude and affection and he only takes as much as he needs to be whole again. And Lestat is stunned, frozen, blinking owlishly when Louis finally retreats. He kisses Lestat’s temple, then his knuckles, then drifts from the room like nothing has happened.

It takes Lestat a moment to come down. He’s not sure whether he’s more sated or more confused, and he busies himself by straightening out the ornaments they’ve knocked askew on the mantle, then folding the pieces of Louis’s suit that are still in a pool on the floor. He takes them with him down the hallway and stops to groom himself in the bathroom. He fixes his hair. He straightens his lapels.

On the way back he hears the microwave beeping in the kitchen, and then Louis appears in the doorway.

He’s wearing the same heavy sweater from before. Frayed at the neckline. It would be heartbreaking, and usually is, but having his Louis back is more of a relief than he can express. It fans the embers of his afterglow.

“Here,” Louis says. He extends one of the mugs of hot chocolate from before. It’s warm again but the marshmallows have melted. “I put them in the microwave.”

“Oh,” he holds the cup to his chest and breathes the scent. Louis offers a shy smile.

“Will you put a movie on?”

**Author's Note:**

> [Say hi on Tumblr :)](https://monstersinthecosmos.tumblr.com/post/168917064124/right-where-it-belongs)


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